


Bad Case of Loving You

by ukiyo91, yukonecho (yavanna)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Doctor!Tazer, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:50:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukiyo91/pseuds/ukiyo91, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yavanna/pseuds/yukonecho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, the one where Tazer is the Team Doctor and Kaner digs it. </p><p>Also, split-pea soup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Case of Loving You

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, we are not medical professionals. This is fanfiction, so liberties are taken with age, dates, backstory, etc...
> 
> Enjoy!

 

It all begins with a spin-o-rama. Kaner, who is an absolute boss at those, occasionally has to show the rookies what a real NHL star can do. So as Sharpy and Seabs watch with amused grins and plenty of ribbing, and Kaner makes sure Shawzy and Saader look suitably impressed and anticipatory, he instructs Duncs to come at his wing. 

Kaner’s execution starts out perfect, much better than it usually is during a game, and he gives himself a mental high-five. Then his left skate hits a notch in the ice, throwing Kaner off his spin and his ankle folds itself under him awkwardly as he falls. The next thing he knows, he’s on the ice staring up at the retired jerseys and hoping everyone missed that.

Then his ankle begins to throb and Kaner begins a litany of shit, shit, shit in his head as he lifts himself up with a groan that sounds lame and pathetic even to his ears. He feels briefly lightheaded, and from a distance hears the mocking calls from Sharpy (absolutely the worst captain) turn searching as his ankle begins to protest under his weight.

Kaner says, “Ow,” somewhat needlessly as he skates towards the bench with Duncs and Seabs bracketing him, past the clump of sweaty, red and pimpled creatures that are his teammates, and submits himself to Q’s disapproval before being ordered to get himself checked out.  Then it’s a blur of concerned personnel ushering him forward, off the ice and down the familiar hallway.

All standard procedure.

What’s not familiar is the pair of dark eyes that glare out from over a clipboard as Kaner gingerly takes his seat on the padded bench in the team physician's office. The clipboard is lowered to reveal that the dark eyes are accompanied by a young face, though probably older than Kaner’s, which is set in a grim countenance.

His scowl seems to push his face into a constipated grimace of unimpressed, and Kaner has a half-second to think, Whoa kind of hot, before the guy opens his mouth.

“So you fucked up your ankle showing off?”

“Uh, what?” The mix of bored and accusatory in the man’s tone throws him, since Kaner’s used to more careful, fatherly chiding from his doctors.

If possible, this doctor’s eyes narrow further, and Kaner notes that the sour look is an odd contrast to the pleasantly neutral shades of blue and khaki in his ensemble. Kaner’s eyes manage do a totally subtle sweep of the guy’s body, noting with an offhandedly professional eye that he’s in good shape, before the doctor’s sharp reprimand continues.

“Are you experiencing concussion-like symptoms as well, or is acting like an idiot at practice normal behavior?” The doctor peers briefly into Kaner’s eyes before scribbling something on the clipboard. Kaner follows the movement, which brings his attention to the shiny new name tag on the guy’s front pocket, which reads Dr. J. Toews.

Instead of a graceful retort, Kaner blurts, “How the fuck do you pronounce your name? Toe-es?”

“Tay-ves,” snaps the reply.

“Um, I guess you’re new?”

“Astute as well, I see.”

And now Kaner’s a little bit offended. Sure, he’s not the brightest bulb in the lamp, but he’s not a complete idiot. Plus, he’s kind of accustomed to being a bit of a darling amongst the Blackhawks staff, who all think he’s fucking charming and shit.

And does this guy even watch hockey? ‘Cause Kaner’s kind of famous now too, and this guy should at least appreciate his stature, no, his status on the team. Kaner wears the A now, and although the Blackhawks haven’t won a Stanley Cup yet, they’ve definitely earned some respect and people are usually a bit more solicitous.

Instead, he gets Dr. Tay-ves, whose faint aura of distaste slowly becomes palpable the longer Kaner sits silently gaping.

Dr. Toews must take his silence for agreement, because he begins to poke at Kaner’s ankle and announces, “Looks like you’re experiencing some swelling. I’ll wrap it and give you some ice, but practice is over for you.”

Kaner reluctantly nods, and then the doctor fixes him with a sharp look, saying “You need to tell me the truth now--are you experiencing any abnormal discomfort?”

Kaner wordlessly shakes his head, and Dr. Toews, if possible, looks even more like someone shoved a stick up his ass, “Let’s get something straight. When I ask you a question about your health, you reply verbally. That shouldn’t be a problem for you, right? Quenneville said you’re quite the chatterbox normally.”

At this, Kaner feels a surge of anger and embarrassment flush hotly in his face, “Dude, you don’t know me. Get off my case--I was practicing my moves just like everyone else!”

“Don’t pander to me, Kane.” The use of his name startles the anger out of Kaner, who opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Dr. Toews continues, “I’ve seen all sorts of macho-bullshit from athletes who think it’s only bruised ego when they make fools of themselves in front of teammates. But when you’re in my office, I need complete honesty.”

“I’m fine.” Kaner forces out. “The doctors here usually believe me. I don’t fuck around with this stuff. Not with hockey.” And it’s true, Kaner’s seen it happen to players in Juniors, who brush these things off like they’re nothing and then lose careers over them. He takes good care of his body, since its skill and its speed are the only things he has to offer. He knows, and tries to convince this doctor with the certainty of his gaze, that this is just a small thing. Kaner will get better. There are no other options for him.

Either Dr. Toews is completely oblivious or just doesn’t care, and he continues, in an abnormally deep voice for someone who has somewhat boyish features, “Yeah, well I’m not your usual doctor. In fact, that’s why I’m here; the Blackhawks need people who don’t slap a band-aid on a torn ligament and call it fixed. I’m here to make sure there are no stupid, avoidable mistakes from players who think they’re invincible just because they’re paid millions to slap a piece of rubber around a sheet of ice.”

“So you don’t even like hockey?” And that offends Kaner even more than the doctor’s bedside manner. “Like, I mean, why the fuck are you even here?”

At the question, Dr. Toews stiffens and glares even harder--if that was even possible--at Kaner before replying in a quietly controlled voice that lets Kaner know that somewhere, he just touched a nerve, “I’m here to ensure that your crazy moves on the ice don’t cost you two games and don’t cost this organization millions of dollars.”

Kaner’s done. He’s so done. “Then how about you do your job, save the lecture and get me some fucking ice!

Dr. Toews draws in a breath and Kaner levels him with his fiercest look, usually reserved for D-men who want to fuck up his shit. But Dr. Toews’ dead shark eyes must be accustomed to such death glares, ‘cause he just gives one back, and that focus is all on Kaner, who feels vulnerable and exposed on the table; his ankle, which he had always thought sturdy and strong, looking fragile and pale against the dark blue of the padding and woah, it suddenly feels intimate in here.

His heart, he realizes, is beating like a racehorse, and his skin buzzes like it does if he’s gearing up for a tough faceoff against someone five inches taller and 60 pounds heavier, and the ensuing awareness of his surroundings, of Dr. Toews’ shallow breaths and the bead of sweat that has appears just under the wisp of hair over his forehead, pings something inside him, usually something that only occurs on the ice, and never off it.

And then the moment is broken, as Dr. Toews’ face becomes mask-like and calm and he turns, dismissing Kaner as he grabs an ice-pack and a two pills from a drawer to his right.

He hands both to Kaner wordlessly, and Kaner wants to say something sarcastic, like he’s won some sort of battle, except he hasn’t. In no world has he won anything in this office with this man who has completely dismantled his day. Instead, he nods, eyes averted as he hops off the bench and heads towards the door. Duncs or Sharpy will be around to help him home, where he can shower, play Call of Duty and forget about all about this.

Except Dr. Toews says, “See me again if it continues to ache or swell.” It’s delivered not with the faint whiff of disdain, but instead with a queer sort of sincerity. Kaner turns and regards the doctor, who looks as if he’s expecting an answer and Kaner replies, “Yeah, Doc.”

And he grudgingly thinks that he can respect that--a guy who doesn’t fuck around with his responsibilities. That sort of competence is reminiscent of Sharpy or Coach, who both wear the cloth of leadership with frightening aplomb, and whose certainty in their work, in their professional goals, is still something Kaner is trying to feel out for himself. What no one knows is how much he aspires to be better--not just as a player, but as a someone worth looking up to. 

Without trying, Dr. Toews has probed the secret space inside him, where he stashes these stupid sort of dreams (who is he kidding, with his attitude, with his lack of control, all he has is his stick and his skates) and it aches in that familiar way that he only feels when he’s alone in his hotel room after a game lost and his roommate (this week Bolly, next week--who knows?) has to help stagger to his bed drunk. He tries to shake of the specter of depression and, avoiding Dr. Toews’ seemingly all-knowing gaze, lets the door shut quietly behind him.

\----

So Kaner’s first impression of the new team doctor is that he looks like a dead shark, and he elbows Shawzy to tell him so.

Shawzy snorts. “No way,” he whispers back. “More like a dead bear. He sounds Canadian.”

Actually, Kaner’s first impression was that he looked kind of like a hockey player, all tall and buff, and as the guy stands next to Q as morning skate halts, the impression is reaffirmed. Since when do doctors have time to go to the gym?

“Guys,” Q says, after they’d all gathered at the edge of the ice, “This is Doctor Jonathan Toews. He’s a former trauma surgeon, and he’ll be replacing Dr. Chris.”

Shawzy giggles, the little snot. “You mean baldy’s gone?”

Doctor Toews wrinkles his eyebrows a fraction, a tamer repeat of what Kaner is guessing is his default expression, and Kaner silently agrees with himself that he does look like a dying--okay, long past dying--shark.

The sting from yesterday’s meeting has somewhat faded, but Kaner holds back a wince as Doctor Toews glances over the team with a nod and somehow manages to look right through Kaner.

He opens his mouth, “Gentlemen. Let me know if it hurts, if it’s going to hurt, and if it did hurt.”

And then the doctor shuts up.

The guys all nod, looking impressed, Q’s mustache twitches in approval, and Shawzy jams his shoulder into Kaner once they’re back on the ice. “I like him! What’s your problem?”

“He’s a sociopathic asshole, that’s what.”

Shawzy just looks blank, as if the word sociopathic has never occurred to him, and then skates away to chirp the rookies with Bollig.

Kaner turns back around to find that a group of the older Blackhawks have gathered around Dr. Toews. He kind of blends right in with his stoic Canadian demeanor, and the guys seem to respond well to the fact that their new doctor isn’t some geezer who thought this would be a nice cushy way to ease into retirement.

“You know, Duncs has been having some issues with his left knee,” he hears Seabs say, and holds back a smirk at the crinkle of confusion in Dr. Toews’ eyes.

“Who is ‘Duncs’?”

“Oh, that’s me,” The man himself speaks up, and Dr. Toews glances down at his clipboard with pursed lips, “Duncan Keith?”

“Yeah, man, everyone here gets a nickname. It’s an initiation of sorts,” explains Sharpy, with a gleam in his eye that never bodes well for Kaner. Despite wearing the C and therefore supposedly being a paragon of leaderly honor and virtue and shit, Sharpy is a troll who likes to enlist whoever gets the pleasure of being Kaner’s roommate into awful pranks, like stealing his bag and replacing its contents with used coffee mugs and underpants or ordering wake-up calls at five in the goddamn morning. Kaner’s always sure to keep his eye on his room-key, but it’s like Sharpy (and Burish, before he was traded 2010 after they lost in the conference finals) knows that Kaner’s a creature of habit and will usually stash it in his front jeans pocket.

Sharpy, like most carnivorous predators, can smell a challenge, and Kaner’s sure that Dr. Toews’ grumpy-pants routine is like blood in the water for the man, and watches as Sharpy places his chin on hands folded over his stick and cocks his head to the side, examining the fresh meat thoughtfully.

“So, Dr. Toe-es, I’m sure being a trauma surgeon and all, you’re used to lots of blood?”

Dr. Toews levels a blank stare at Sharpy, managing to impart all interpretations of ‘duh’ without saying a word.

“And you’re so young! Why aren’t you in some fancy hospital getting all Grey’s Anatomy with home hot lady doctors instead of dealing with us sweaty animals?”

Kaner snorts, ‘cause Sharpy totally watches that show every Thursday with Abby--even when they’re on the road they skype over whoever McDreamboatsexypants is banging--and probably loves that their doctor is some young stud, expect for ew, no he’s not.

Dr. Toews suddenly looks up, making eye contact with Kaner, who flushes, embarrassed to have been caught eavesdropping. He’s sure that the guy pitches his voice loud enough for him to hear when he says, “I went quickly through school. I’m 30, and I’m here because the number of players who lose their careers over preventable injuries is increasing, and I have the skill to make sure you don’t fuck yourselves up trying to win.”

The guys all silently blink and Kaner feels angry again because, dude, it was a stupid spin-o-rama, he does those like twice a year in games and the one time he messes it up, this asshole doctor has to judge him to be one of those fucktards who don’t get themselves looked at after a slash or a bad trip. He suddenly wants to show this Dr. Toews exactly what kind of superstar athlete supreme-o he’s dealing with and furiously skates off to inform Crow that they’re practicing shoot-outs.

Kaner lets himself get lost in the repetition of the shots, the ease with which his hands, wrists, and arms move fluidly to manipulate the puck. Dr. Toews may be good at the whole doctoring thing, but this is what Kaner was born to do, as sure as the ice below his skates.

He stays absorbed in his task until Sharpy hipchecks him and whispers loudly, “Hey, so the new Doc’s been glaring at you for half of practice. What did you do to piss him off yesterday?”

“Me?” Kaner snarls, “The guy basically ripped me a new one for twinging my ankle. I’m fine, obviously, and he needs to take the stick out of his ass.”

“I dunno, he’s kind of fun. Definitely an improvement over the last guy, eh? Though if he continues to scowl like that, his face will get stuck that way.”

“I think it already has,” Kaner remarks and chances a glance over to the stands where Dr. Toews is furiously taking notes as the players skate by. As if he senses the attention, his eyes snap towards Kaner and Sharpy, who both involuntarily flinch backwards.

“Dude, his eyes are like lasers...” Sharpy says, and then the asshole chuckles and waves Duncs and Seabs over from where they were practicing two-on-ones with Hossa. “Hey, new Doc’s nickname should be Tazer. Get it?”

The two D-men groan obligingly and skate off to spread the word. Kaner figures that means Dr. Toews, or Dr. Tazer, has been accepted. It’s no surprise, really. He’s got that demeanor that hockey players respect--a fair amount of bullshit is par for the course in their everyday lives, so someone able to cut through it cleanly is automatically in. And Kaner resents it a little, cause it took awhile for the more senior players to decide on a nickname for him. Kaner had been a bit of an outsider at first, after being drafted number one overall. He had been chosen to reboot a team that had been struggling, and to come into a locker room filled with veterans who probably saw some cocky kid trying to play Sid Crosby, with weight of both the franchise’s and Chicago’s expectations on his shoulders...there really was no one who could share that load, and the spotlight on his every move made him simultaneously want to act out and be a hermit.

And so his reputation as both a loner and a partier was built around him, with every drink he had and every song he danced to and every bar he left alone from; and then to play the next day, and score those goals that had people gasping, that his teammates (with all their skill and drive and determination) couldn’t catch up to; and then to see those guys broken off into groups of two or three, bonds being forged and friendships cemented; and the Kaner roommate lottery a source of mild joking...It had taken a while to feel comfortable with these guys, with this organization. But he does have guys now, people he can talk to, and his skin fits a bit better and his smiles are looser and the success doesn’t feel so edged.

Still, sometimes he’ll be on the ice during a game, looking at the thousands of fans packed into the United Center, seeing his team and the colors of the opposition flying about him, and think no one in this space, in this city, in this world is as alone as I am right now.

 

\----

When Q tells them, offhandedly, that they’re going to have to get checked out by Toews--who had picked up the nickname with a look of almost, Kaner shudders to think, _happiness_ \--for physicals, Kaner tries not to focus on his discomfort. If anything, he’s glad that he can show off what good shape he’s in. He spent the entire summer bulking up, and, oh baby, it had worked.

“Do we have to?” he whines to Sharpy later, as they head into the locker room, leaving Toews and his eyes that bore into the back of Kaner’s head, waiting for him to fuck up, behind.

Sharpy cuffs him on the back of the head. “Yeah, dumbass, he needs to know what terrible things you’re doing to your body now, so that he’s got something to compare to when it gets worse.”

Kaner frowns, slightly put off. “I take excellent care of my body!” he protests, knowing it’s a little futile with Sharpy, but unhappily aware of how well he sticks to the nutritionist's plans.

“And the booze?”

“I’m just starting the preservation process early. Can’t be getting old like you, Sharpy- how do you think I maintain my gorgeous youthful physique?”

And by the time that Kaner actually has to go in and meet the damn doctor, he’s nearly convinced himself that he’s god’s gift to hockey and women in seventy-one inches of pure, manly muscle. Or at least, the beers the night before had him convinced. This morning, they’ve manifested as a nice hangover that’s just going to make this goddamn day so much better.

He can practically hear Doctor Toews rolling his eyes as he does his best to strut through the UC on his day off.

“Hey Doc,” he grins, until the look on Toews’ face reminds Kaner why Tazer got his nickname.

“Follow me,” Toews says, in a clipped voice that rings in Kaner’s ears. Ugh, Kaner thinks, and then gets distracted by following the most hockey-est of asses he’s ever seen (and that includes Crosby’s). So distracted, in fact, that he trips over the doorframe--how do you trip over a doorframe, god, Kaner, what are you doing--and looks up to see Toews’ nostrils flaring in his face and a smirk hovering right beneath it.

“How’s the ankle?” he hears, and it only gets better from there.

After enduring the doctor--he’s a doctor, ugh, why does he have to be so tall--snorting over his height, (“And you were drafted number one overall?” Toews asks skeptically. “‘Cause I worked my fucking ass off,” Kaner spits in reply, wondering why Toews knows that.) Kaner gets the incredible honor of being asked to strip down in front of this sexiest of hockey asses and the asshole that goes with it.

“Aren’t you going to leave?” Kaner glares at Toews. “Don’t I get a hospital dress or something?”

Toews glances up from his papers. “What? You’re a hockey player and you can’t get naked unless you’re alone?”

Kaner grits his teeth and begins methodically pulling off his clothing--it’s nothing new, of course, he does strip down in the locker room all the time. But it’s different with Dr. Toews, and his skin begins to goosebump.

A plasticy, fabricy pile hits him in the face. “Here’s your dress.” Toews states, and Kaner can’t decide if the man’s grinning or grimacing inside, and elects to shut up and put it on.

Unexpectedly gentle hands come up and grip his ears, and Kaner jumps a little at the contact. “I’m testing your hearing, not your reflexes,” the doctor says, and Kaner forces himself to breathe. He’s got the fastest reflexes in the NHL, and his instinct to jump when people touch his ears is totally normal. Ears aren’t erogenous--look at that, Erica would be so proud that he finally found a way to use that one--zones. Of course not.

“Well, your hearing obviously isn’t the problem with your inability to listen.” Toews snarks, and it’s Kaner’s turn to grimace.

Toews’ hand brushes the back of Kaner’s neck on his way down to his back, stethoscope in hand, and Kaner shivers a little. Toews notices it immediately. “Are you cold?” he asks, suddenly alert. Kaner shakes his head, and Toews relaxes slightly. “Don’t want you getting sick at the start of the season and infecting the team,” he harrumphs, and Kaner wonders if Tazer is this uptight about daily life. He can see it now: clothing perfectly pressed, dishes washed immediately, bed made expertly, sheets smelling of--Kaner inhales--mmmm, Old Spice, which is weird ‘cause Old Spice is what a lot of hockey players end up wearing since they aren’t mature enough to invest in classy colognes. Kaner expects someone like Toews to smell like Hugo Boss or some fancy shit, and the scent reminds Kaner of Juniors when the bus would stink of it and Axe Body Spray and--Kaner mentally slaps himself to stop thinking about Toews’ scent. He tries to jolt himself out of it and finds that he’s relaxed into the hands Tazer has pressed onto either side of his body.

Toews’ eyes fly open at what must be the spike in Kaner’s heartbeat under the stethoscope and for a moment, they’re looking at each other in absolute stillness. Kaner wonders if all the ‘Hawks felt this exposed under Tazer’s gaze, and why the silence between them seems to be louder than the cheers of a sold out UC.

“Well, heart’s fine.” Toews says briskly, turning back to his clipboard, and for a brief moment, Kaner wonders if it really is fine.

Blood pressure passes silently and with minimal touching, and Kaner is forced to calm his breathing for the sake of the test.

“Lie down on your stomach, please.” Toews’ voice is surprisingly calm, and Kaner realizes the doctor’s about to see his butt. Like, his whole butt. What a shame it’s not the other way around, he muses, contemplating Toews’ ass again.

Toews’ hands come down onto Kaner’s back, running smoothly along the sides of his spine, and Kaner wonders what this test is for. He doesn’t mind, though, and realizes that it’s not worth asking. He settles into the hospital bed and breathes as slowly as he can, relaxing into the unexpected calluses on Toews’ hands tracing his back.

“Oh, may as well get this one out of the way.” Toews’ voice is deceptively calm for what he says next. “Are you sexually active?”

“Currently?” Kaner squeaks, head flying up from the pillow.

“Yes, currently. I don’t trust Deadspin on this one.” Kaner winces and wonders if lying about his sexual prowess is the best move when he’s laying, stomach down and half nude, under the stark gaze of Dr. Toews.

“Uh, sporadically?” Kaner hopes Toews doesn’t guess that he learned that word from watching Clueless with Erica.

Toews makes a noise--Kaner’s not sure how to interpret it--and goes back to methodically mapping out his spine. “No scoliosis, though that would explain your diminutive height,” Toews’ hands leave Kaner’s back cold, and Kaner makes a face into the pillow. “Sit up,” Toews instructs in a familiar tone, and Kaner nearly falls over himself in his haste to comply.

Until he’s met with a pleasant surprise between his legs. He crosses them as quickly as he can and chokes out, “I have to, uh, pee.”

Toews’ eyebrows raise a fraction of an inch, and Kaner’s got to be blushing with embarrassment. “You have to _pee_? Hold it.”

“I really can’t.” Kaner decides that the best option is to hop off the bed and edge towards the door with his back to the--ugh, no, he is not sexy--doctor probably boring holes into Kaner’s totally exposed back and butt.

“You can’t? Jesus Christ, Kaner, do you have the bladder of a three-year-old to match the maturity?” Kaner doesn’t have to be looking at Toews to sense his mixture of disbelief and disdain.

Kaner’s in such a hurry to get out that he’s barely bothered by the comment. “Yup!” he manages and turns to give Toews a thumbs up once he’s gotten his torso out the door. “So I’ll just go take care of my, uh, bladder, and I’ll be right back.”

Toews snorts, and Kaner can’t help but think about that when he jerks off in the bathroom down the hall.

\----

Kaner manages not to think about the utterly humiliating betrayal of his body in Dr. Toews’ office for a couple of weeks, throwing himself into practice as October comes to a close and November heralds the beginning of several lengthy roadtrips. They’ve managed a pretty impressive six-game win streak, and everyone is healthy, so Kaner’s spirits are up.

It’s hard to keep his mind completely off the subject of the doctor, since it seems like the entirety of the Blackhawks seem to dig the guy and Toews spends a few days a week watching their morning skates, clipboard at the ready, attentive to any tender limb or sore muscle. Kaner’s actually thrown a bit by the fact that the guy can smile, which, upon further review, more resembles the grin a serial killer on network TV gives to his oblivious partners on the force. Yet he’s quiet and thoughtful with guys like Hossa or Duncs, wry and snarky with Sharpy, Oduya and Seabs, and loose with Crow and Hammer; seemingly a man for all seasons. He doesn’t interact much with Kaner, apart from a few raised eyebrows. He knows Toews is on standby during all the games, but he wonders if the doctor actually watches them play or if he even likes hockey at all. Kaner wonders why he spends so much time wondering, when he obviously has better things to do.

He gets his answer a few days later during a heated match against Vancouver. It’s been a more physical game than usual, as the last game for the Hawks on home ice for a while and the last of a long road trip for the Canucks, and tempers are mounting. Ten minutes into the third, tied 2-2, Kaner gets a breakaway and flies down the ice with the puck, hearing the muted roar of the crowd and the furious shouts of a defenceman behind him. It’s Bieksa, and he catches up with Kaner quickly, crowding him close to the boards before delivering a vicious check to his side. Kaner feels his stick hand loosen as the force of the slam knocks his glove off, and he quickly pivots to try and slow Bieksa down with his body, hoping that Shawzy will get the puck in time. A bitten off ‘Fuck!’ in his ear means he’s successful and Kaner reaches down to grab his glove when a hot flash of pain erupts in his wrist and Kaner reels back because fucking Bieksa just fucking slashed him with his fucking stick!

He can hear a collective shocked intake of breath from the stands around him and one of the refs blows the whistle just as an unaware Shawzy shoots the puck between Luongo’s legs and the goal horn begins to blast. The crowd seems torn between cheering and screaming in anger as Kaner cradles his suddenly numb hand to his chest and has to be restrained by a linesman from launching himself at Bieksa, who is shouting back about fucking accidents and not seeing Kaner’s fucking wrist and before Kaner can see it all play out, he’s being rushed off the ice and once again down a familiar hallway as the numbness begins to wear off and his wrist really begins to ache.

Shit, Kaner thinks, panicked. Of all the places to take a slash, his wrist is the absolute worst. He must have forgotten who the new team doctor was again, because he blinks and does a double take when he sees Dr. Toews emerge from out of nowhere and grab his arm, escorting him into the clinic. The look on his face is dark, pitched into a scowl unlike anything Kaner’s seen before and as soon as he’s got Kaner seated on the bench, probing at his wrist, Toews hisses, “Why the fuck didn’t you wait until the game was halted to grab your glove? Are you fucking insane?”

Kaner shakes his head, trying to clear his blurring vision. “Shut up.”

The doctor looks like he’s about to punch a wall. “What is your fucking problem, Kaner? Are you out to fuck up every single limb you have? One a season, right? What’s next up in the spring, your left ankle? Going to do another spin-o- _fucking_ -rama?” Despite his seeming lack of control over his anger, Toews’ hands are exacting in their grip on Kaner’s wrist, feeling for cracks.

Kaner’s breathing heavily, and he notices in the back of his mind that Toews is, too. “No,” he manages, and tries to ignore the weird gentleness of Toews’ fingers exploring his wrist. It’s not too hard when he remembers the check Bieksa gave him into the boards.

“What, then?” Toews demands.

“We need to get the refs.” Kaner’s mind snaps into focus, and if not for the surprising strength of Toews’ grip on his wrist, he’d have yanked it away and rushed back to the ice to get Bieska to pay.

“No you fucking don’t-” Toews begins, and Kaner cuts him off.

“Get me to the fucking refs right goddamn now. Where the fuck is Q? That motherfucker is going down. That was an intentional wrist slash, I cannot fucking believe this, if he’s not in the fucking box next time I’m on the goddamn ice,” Kaner’s nearly rambling now, amped up on adrenaline from the accident and ready to punch Bieksa himself, bad wrist or no.

“Sit. Your. Ass. Down.”

Toews’ eyes are darker than Kaner’s ever seen them, darker than the first time they met, darker than the black of the training room floor beneath their feet. “Sit down,” he repeats, and Kaner, locked into Tazer’s gaze, complies.

“You’re staying here. Getting Bieksa a penalty is not your priority here. Your wrist is. Do you ever want to play again?”

Kaner nods mutely.

“Good.” Toews starts wrapping his wrist in a brace. “You’re not playing again tonight, though. You’re not playing next game, either, or the next. This sprain is only a first-degree, but it’s going to take at least a week of rest.” Toews hands Kaner an ice pack and glares into his eyes.

“Don’t use the wrist until I say so.”

\----

And that’s how Kaner finds himself squashed next to Tazer in the box in their first away game of the trip. It turns out that Tazer does watch their games if no one needs immediate care, and by just two minutes in, Kaner gets to see how Tazer’s usual dead shark eyes light up at the drop of the puck.

If Kaner didn’t know better, he’d think it was kind of cute.

But he does know better, though he and Tazer end up yelling at the ice--and everyone on it--in similar rage and excitement, and if Kaner leans into Tazer a little to get a view around Rozsíval’s head in the row ahead of him, well, for once, Tazer doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he grins down at Kaner when the Hawks score with a smile Kaner didn’t even know Tazer was capable of, and Kaner manages to forget--for a few hours--how much he can’t stand the guy.

By midnight, the guys are back in the hotel and all except for Kaner, it seems, are exhausted. He putters around the room until Bolly throws a pillow at him and tells him to shut the fuck up so he can sleep, and at that point, Kaner decides to go on a walk.

Walks are good, he reminds himself, and it’s true. He’s always liked taking a walk late at night.

Except they’re in fucking Saint Paul, where everything apparently closes at 11pm, and drinking alone in a bar after the Hawks have just wiped the floor with the Wild? Yeah, probably not the best idea. So he wanders, leisurely listening to the sounds of the city, so different from Chicago, when he sees further down the street the bright lights of a hospital. Kaner finds himself approaching, and sees a group of people gathered by the benches near the front entrance talking and smoking. From their white coats and dark blue scrubs, he deduces that they’re doctors and he watches him thoughtfully for a moment as they interact in this casual leave of freedom, away from responsibilities. They’re around the same age as Tazer, late 20s to early 30s, and despite the late hour they look clean and serious and professional, so foreign to Kaner that they might as well be a rare species of animal. They’re so _adult_ , he decides, and the word has never made him feel so young.

He makes more money than they do per year; he’ll end up making a triple of their lifetime salaries in ten years. He has posters with his face adorning the bedroom walls of kids all over Chicago, and his name is regularly bandied about in conversations on the great right-wingers playing today. These guys probably don’t watch hockey; they have no idea who he is. If he came into their lives, all they would see is cocky blonde kid who never went to college. He wonders if that’s what Dr. Toews sees when he looks at him, and maybe that’s why he’s so harsh. He wonders if Tazer would feel more at home with this group of attractive, competent people whose work has meaning.

Kaner shakes himself out of his maudlin thoughts. What he does on the ice, it has meaning too. It makes people happy, and it makes him happy. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be. And Tazer chose this life too, so there must be something he finds meaningful about it. Plus, Kaner thinks as he turns away and walks back to the hotel, they would never call him Tazer at a stuffy place like that. And who could pass up an official NHL nickname?

So he heads back to the hotel, stopping briefly to grab an illicit Snickers from the vending machine, and then literally runs into the subject of his speculation.

Dr. Toews--or Tazer or whatever--looks surprised, and Kaner is momentarily stupefied by the lack of cleanly pressed slacks and crisp button-down in the guy’s ensemble. Obviously, he’s dressed for bed, wearing a loose Blackhawks long sleeved shirt and basketball shorts, and the contrast between this Toews and the one who always glares at him from the stands immediately makes Kaner go red.

“Uh, sorry bro,” he manages to say eloquently, distracted by Dr. Toews’ bare legs, and Tazer huffs and glances down at the chocolate bar in Kaner’s hand.

“Seriously? Sugar at 11 pm? Are you trying to ruin your sleep schedule?”

Jeez, even in his pajamas the guy manages to make Kaner feel like he just got off the bus for Juniors.

“Don’t even judge, man. Plus, there’s nothing in here that’s remotely healthy, so speak for yourself,” Kaner gestures to the dollar bill clutched in Tazer’s hand.

“I’m not the one playing professional hockey,” the doctor remarks dispassionately, but Kaner sees, just for a moment, a sort of drawn tightness in his face.  

It makes him weirdly cautious, not wanting to retort that, yeah, he is the one in the NHL, so he opts to awkwardly remain silent.

But Tazer doesn’t say anything either, and they just stand there for a while, until Kaner hands his Snickers to the doctor with a small smile.

“Here. I guess you’re right. I don’t want to screw myself up further,” he flicks his eyes to his wrist, which is still wrapped in the elastic compression bandage. It’s painful to sit back and watch his team play without him, and every day he’s off the ice is like a day in purgatory."

“No. Keep it.”

“Seriously, man? You came down here to get chocolate, here’s some chocolate!”

“It wasn’t your fault. About your wrist.” Tazer’s deep monotone voice doesn’t reveal anything, and Kaner gapes at him for a second, thrown by the change of subject.

“What? Well, duh, that was all Bieksa.” He shrugs, “But you were right about me grabbing my glove. That was pretty dumb." 

Tazer looks constipated, which in actuality is probably him figuring out what to say next.

“No, I was unduly harsh. These things happen in hockey.”

Was that an apology? From Dr. McFrownyPants? Kaner wants to savor it, the absolute weirdness of this moment, standing in the vending machine room of some second rate hotel in Saint Paul with a guy who has really hairy legs and really dark eyes who seems to blow hot and cold every time they meet.

“Nah, I get it--you’re just doing your job. So here,” Kaner presses the Snickers into Tazer’s hands. “Think of this as my thank you for patching me up.”

Tazer looks down at the Snickers and then up at Kaner, like it doesn’t compute. Then he nods, and Kaner thinks things may have shifted a bit. There’s not so much tension between them now, or maybe the tension has transmuted into something less tangible, but as Kaner watches Tazer turn away and head down the hall, he senses that maybe things are about to get more complicated.

 ----

It’s about a week later and, once again, Kaner finds himself at the vending machine with Tazer. Same crappy food, different crappy city. Any city that’s not Chicago or Buffalo is crappy to Kaner. He has a nagging ping about nutrition in the back of his head, and, since he’s with a doctor, who _knows_ \--unlike Shawzy, who can easily be convinced that beer has protein--Kaner decides that they may as well get some actual food.

Of course, Kaner’s not a total wuss, so actual food means Denny’s.

“What?” he shrugs at Tazer’s look of disbelief, which he can now distinguish from Tazer’s looks of confusion and disdain, though they’re all really variations on the same monotonous face. “It’s open at midnight, okay?”

Tazer blinks a few times and picks up his menu with an air of silence clearly meant to show Kaner how much Tazer thinks of that excuse, which, apparently, is not much. He begins to examine his menu in what amazes Kaner as extraordinary concentration--it’s a menu, seriously--and Kaner figures he might as well do the same.

“Hiiiiiiiii-”

Kaner doesn’t think it’s possible to stretch out a single-word greeting that long, but what does he know? The waitress is still going.

“-iiiiiii!”

When she’s finally shut up, Kaner takes a moment to examine her. She can’t be older than he is, and damn, the city of Columbus has some nice-looking waitresses. Kaner’s surprised Tazer’s not interested--the waitress seems pretty focused on Tazer--but hey, maybe she’d be into him.

“Hi,” Kaner smiles, giving her a smouldering look he’s practiced in bars. Of course, this may only work on drunk girls--it’s not like Kaner’s great at picking them up when they’re sober--but this one seems into them, though maybe “them” is just Tazer, but hey, anyone with eyes has the potential to be into Kaner.

The waitress’ eyes do dart over to Kaner and she gives him a terse smile, and Kaner realizes that she’s probably not happy to be working the graveyard shift. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

Tazer finally looks up from his menu and nods. “Hi Christie,” he begins, and Kaner wonders when he had time to check her nametag. “Can I get your Southwest Turkey Sandwich and soup, and the Cranberry Apple Chicken Salad?

“And what kind of soup?”

Tazer adds, “Split pea,” and Kaner has to repress a snort.

“And for you?” Christie nods to Kaner.

Kaner clears his throat. “I’ll have, uh, a Grand Slam Slugger, smothered cheese fries, and a coke.” Kaner glances at Tazer and takes in the raised eyebrows. “Make that a diet coke.”

Christie mmhmms and tells them that it will be a few minutes, leaving the pair to fiddle with their napkins.

“Wrong sport on that meal, there,” Tazer almost-grins. Kaner represses, badly, the urge to roll his eyes.

“You have a terrible sense of humor.”

“They should make Faceoff French Toast.” Tazer continues.

Kaner can’t hold back the snort this time. “Really?”

“Icing Ice Cream.” Tazer’s actually laughing across from Kaner now, and Kaner can’t help but grin. “Hot Cross-Check Buns,” he adds, and Tazer’s smile widens.

“Pulled Puck Sandwich.”

“We’ll have to suggest that to Tim Horton’s,” Kaner supplies, and Tazer’s eyebrows pull into a light frown.

“Canadians eat things other than Tim Horton’s.” Tazer slips back into a smile at Kaner’s look of disbelief. “Sometimes.”

Christie shows up with their food then, and they dig in too quickly to keep talking, though not too quickly to snicker at each other over mouthfuls once in a while.

\----

It kinda becomes a thing, even after Kaner’s back on the ice. They meet up at the hotel’s vending machine whenever they have a road game and usually end up wandering through the increasingly chilly streets. Kaner’s pretty sure Tazer looks up where the local Denny’s are beforehand, because they always manage to find one within walking distance.

Sometimes Tazer guilts him into eating a salad--though that usually only happens if they’ve lost--and after a few months of this, they’ve taken to splitting desserts. The first time Kaner orders an Extra-Deluxe-Banana-Split with double fudge, Tazer eyes it with such thinly veiled longing that Kaner can’t help but ask for an extra fork.

During these meals, they occasionally talk about things unrelated to hockey. Kaner tells Tazer about his sisters, about the sacrifices his parents made to send him to Ontario when he was just a teenager, and how he’s fitting in with the team. Tazer always listens, always wears that intense look of focus, and it makes Kaner feel like he can be honest with him. That doesn’t mean Tazer doesn’t still intimidate him a little, especially with the routine physicals he undergoes at the doctor’s hands. He usually leaves those meetings feeling shaky, seeing Dr. Toews in his element, so smart and assured.

So he ends up weirdly treasuring these moments at Denny’s, when they can stop being Patrick Kane, NHL forward, and Dr. Jonathan Toews, MD. 

After taking a obnoxiously large spoonful of ice-cream, Kaner comments, “You know, dude, for a doctor, you keep in really good shape,” and waits for the snarky retort about Kaner’s training and the fact that he still ought to pack on a good ten pounds more of muscle.

Instead, Tazer pauses with his own spoonful halfway to his mouth, and he examines Kaner thoughtfully and then silently replaces his ice cream in the dish and leans back into his chair.

He’s waiting, Kaner realizes, after the silence becomes too long. Waiting for something inside his head, since his eyes have gone distant and his lips are pursed in the way that signifies that he’s deep in thought (not that Kaner pays much attention to his lips anyway, of course not).

In a rare display of patience, Kaner lets him do his thing and packs away more than his share of the ice cream. 

Then Tazer shifts, opening his mouth to say, “I used to play hockey, you know.”

“Seriously?” And that’s kind of a shock--calm, composed Dr. Toews, whose investment in the game Kaner always thought was due primarily to his job.

Tazer quirks his lips, and it’s such a sad smile that Kaner almost doesn’t want to know more. But he asks, “You mean, you wanted to go pro?”

“I was on the cusp of it. Went to Shattuck-St. Mary’s and everything. I did well over there.” It’s said with such matter-of-factness that Kaner immediately searches his memory of any occasion where he might have run across Tazer on the ice. Could he have forgotten?

“Wait, did you do World Juniors?” ‘Cause someone like Tazer, who is so absurdly competent that it’s redundant to brag, wouldn’t do merely well at anything he put his mind to.

Kaner lets his mind conjure up a kid he could have played against at World Juniors, tall and lanky, but with a commanding air on the ice. You don’t forget the ones you play against that really challenge you. Especially not someone like Jonathan Toews, who would have had a presence on the ice that drew attention, and you definitely don’t forget them when they beat you and shake your hand to tell you that you played a good game and really mean it.

The impression he has is so vivid, it might as well be a memory.

Kaner’s shaken back to the present. “Why don’t I remember you?”

Tazer shakes his head, “I didn’t play. Was about to, though. I tore my ACL, MCL, and LCL two months before it was about to begin. When I told them it hurt, they said that it was fine, that pain is part of the game. Everyone gets hurt sometimes, and knees are weak. By the time that I got them to listen, I couldn’t move my left knee. I’d damaged the entire thing from muscle strain in order to stay on the ice for a week of regular games. It took five surgeries and two years to recover from. By that time, I had missed my chance. Hockey was over for me.”

Kaner is stunned, horrified at the brutal honesty of that statement.

“It took years to move on, fully. I tried, though. I had good enough grades in school that I was able to get into a decent pre-med program and worked my way up through med school. Initially, I was drawn to trauma surgery.” Tazer lets himself get lost in a memory, briefly. “The rush. The adrenaline rush of trauma, where everyone needs to work quickly and your skill with your hands is all you have...it reminded me of how I felt on the ice.”

Kaner can’t comprehend having to leave hockey under any circumstances; he has dreams of playing until he’s old and crotchety and has a freaking statue of himself in the Hall of Fame. There has never been an alternative for him, and he certainly doesn’t have Tazer’s intelligence or his resourcefulness. There would have been no medical school for Kaner, probably nothing but Buffalo and endless days of misery over chances lost.

But Tazer picked himself up and adapted, and found something he could excel at once more.  It leaves Kaner feeling shaky, again, that feeling that usually only occurs when he plays hockey. He wonders when the two become so inexorably linked together.

Tazer continues, “It took me a long time to watch hockey again. I couldn’t stand seeing these players, guys that I grew up with, succeeding where I couldn’t. And I couldn’t help that I wasn’t there on the ice with them, but people like my doctors, who had the power, could have made the difference, and didn’t.” He looks Kaner directly in the eyes. “And then you were drafted to Chicago, and I was at U of Chicago for med school. You lit the city up. Suddenly hockey was a part of my life again.

Kaner can barely breathe.

“So when I saw that the ‘Hawks were looking for a new team doctor, things kind of fell into place.” Tazer breaks eye contact to scoop some rapidly melting ice cream into his mouth, before saying, “I saw a system that I had been a victim of. Team doctors paid to prioritize pushing through the pain and winning over the players’ individual health and safety. I knew I could change things, be apart of the solution. At least this way, nobody, and I mean nobody,” Tazer’s eyes go hard, and he continues after taking a shaky breath, “will lose hockey the way I did.”

There’s nothing more to say to that. Kaner nods, hoping to impart the avalanche of respect and sympathy and admiration he suddenly feels that he couldn’t even begin to verbalize. There’s a lump in his throat, and after about ten minutes of soberly working through the remains of the whipped cream, Kaner whispers, “If it’s any consolation, you’re doing a hell of a job, Dr. Toews.”

And Tazer looks up and grins, once, blindingly, before saying, “Call me Jonny.”

\----

So that admiration and respect Kaner was talking about? Yeah, that quickly skyrockets into full blown infatuation. He can’t get it out of his head--that Tazer, who’s Jonny now, played hockey. That they could have played hockey together. That, who the hell knows, they could have been Blackhawks together. 

He wants to know more. He wants to know everything. Unfortunately, the ‘Hawks are back home for a long stretch, which means no more late night meetings at Denny’s. Kaner tries to seek Jonny out after practice, but it’s just his luck that half of the Blackhawks’ bodies have begun their pre-holiday breakdown, so Jonny’s fully booked with physicals.

So Kaner obviously needs a legitimate medical reason to visit him.

He starts off with relatively plausible injuries.

“I think my hand is bruised.” Kaner frowns into Jonny’s mostly unamused eyes, though there’s a crinkle in the corner that lets him hope that Jonny is laughing a little on the inside. Jonny takes his hand and prods the red spot below Kaner’s thumb.

“You want an icepack? This looks fine to me.” Jonny’s eyes scrunch up in a moment of relative concern over the possibility that it might be damaged, and Kaner takes the moment to notice how nicely Jonny’s tie brings out the green hidden in his eyes and relaxes into his touch.

“Yeah, from what I can tell, it’s fine. Let me know if there’s a problem.” Kaner hums in response to Jonny’s orders and hops off the bench, knowing that it would be a little too obvious if he stayed longer, but wanting to all the same.

 

The next week, he’s thought of a new and better one.

Kaner strides into Jonny’s office humming The Thong Song, and Jonny sighs even before looking up at him. 

“Yes?”

“It’s my butt. There’s something wrong with it.”

Jonny simply twirls his fingers and Kaner appreciates for a moment how that would play out in a different, more intimate context, before obliging.

“Is there pain in your tailbone? Or is it a surface wound?”

“Nah man. It’s just...look. Hockey players have a certain look, right? Like, really defined asses. Have you seen Crosby’s ass? It’s huge! And I train as hard as he does, but look!” He gestures in the general direction of his rear end, “Nothing! I have a flat ass. It must be a medical anomaly.”

“Are. You. Serious.”

 

The next time, it’s an actual issue--well, it’s an issue to Kaner, at least. Kaner’s so proud of himself for finding something that really is broken to go see Jonny about.

“I think I broke my funny bone.” Kaner whines, and Jonny’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Come again?”

Kaner sticks his lower lip out in a pout to rival Jackie’s--he’s had a lot of practice--and tells Jonny sincerely, “I haven’t laughed at a single joke of Sharpy’s all day! Shawzy hasn’t been funny either. Even Seabs has been lame. There’s no way all three of them are off, not at the same time. I think I have a problem.”

Jonny rubs Kaner’s elbow for a few minutes to console him and he feels significantly better, smiling at Jonny to tell him so. Jonny raises his eyebrows in response, and Kaner drops the smile. He doesn’t want Jonny to think he’s better enough to stop being touched.

Eventually, Kaner turns to WebMD for more potentially valid injuries a hockey player could have. He narrows it down to the classics: strained ligament, tired out muscle, or bruised knee. He copies and pastes Joint Pain: Causes and Pain Relief Options, suddenly interested when he sees that diagnosis involves physical examination.

“I’m experiencing some acute joint discomfort.” Kaner announces to Johnny the next day, flashing his best bedroom eyes, hoping they induce some sympathy.

“Okay.”

“Yeah, I mean I’ve been hurting in my, uh, big toe. I mean, it’s a little tender... maybe swollen, too?”

Tazer frowns. “How are your skates fitting? Did you bang your toe on anything?”

“No, not at all.” Kaner pauses, trying to remember which disorder he’s reciting symptoms for. ”It happens most at, uh, night.” Oh, hey, maybe Tazer would ask him to stay over with him so he could keep an eye on his toe. That’d be totally in line with medical ethics, and, whoa, kind of kinky as well.

Jonny’s eyes raise--optimistically, Kaner hopes he admires the tight henley he wore just for this occasion -- and then he looks down at his notes for a moment. “Kaner, you’re describing gout.”

“No kidding! So, uh, what do I do about it?”

Jonny snorts. “It’s rare in anyone under the age of fifty-five and happens in people who drink too much alcohol.”

Kaner’s offended. “I drink plenty of alcohol!” he protests. Deadspin has a whole page dedicated to his alcohol habit.

“They’re also overweight, don’t exercise enough, and have a bad diet. Think Henry the Eighth. Anything you want me to tell the nutritionist?”

“Wasn’t Henry the Eighth the one with all the wives? Sounds like a pimp. I could totally have symptoms he did. Symptoms of awesome.”

“I doubt they manifest in you.” Jonny manages to elevate the deadpan into an art form.

“Ah. That’s funny.”

So this just took a left turn into pathetic. Maybe this wasn’t his best plan. “I’m just gonna, uh,” Kaner gestures towards the door, and Jonny starts to grin.

“You’re okay though, right?” Jonny asks, and Kaner nods. He digs the concern a little. It’s cute.

“Nah, I think I just stubbed it or something. No big deal!” He grins, hoping Jonny will think this whole thing was fucking adorable.

All he receives is a raised eyebrow and Kaner decides to take his dismissal with grace and dignity.

 ----

 

Kaner’s been so distracted by his mission to seduce Jonny, only realizing halfway through the funny bone incident that this was his actual mission--he _really_ wants to seduce Jonny--that before he knows it, the holidays are upon them and the team is heading out for their annual Christmas bar crawl. Anyone who’s dating or married has brought his lady, and the team even manages to invite Jonny, assuring him that he’s a total chick magnet. Jonny didn’t look particularly convinced by that line, but hey, Kaner figures, as long as Jonny gets out with them, it doesn’t matter how they do it.

Three hours in, Kaner has struck out at least four times. (Not that he was really trying. But, you know, appearances.) Jonny may be his real goal, but he can’t let the rookies see him head out out alone without even trying. Fortunately, he’s gotten Jonny into the seat next to him, and he’s even gotten his arm around Jonny’s chair with the pretense of stretching out. He’s got the moves like Jagger. But then, Jonny’s across the bar--soon to return, he assures them--and Kaner spends a glorious, intoxicated moment watching his ass as he walks away before searching for what is sure to be less interesting entertainment.

“Hey now,” he chirps Saader, who’s just quipped about Kaner’s luck with the ladies, “I’ve actually gotten more of them to hold up a conversation with me than you.”

The Manchild laughs--a rare activity for someone who might actually be more serious than Jonny, which is saying something--and throws back a shot. “Check out Tazer over there,” he points to the bar, and Kaner nearly lands himself in Jonny’s professional care for how quickly he whips his neck around to look.

Jonny is at the bar, ostensibly buying them more alcohol--Kaner doesn’t care what the alcohol is at this point, all of it is good--but with a woman Kaner had smiled at earlier. They are talking earnestly, and Kaner watches as Jonny leans over to laugh at something she’s said.  

Kaner returns his gaze to the table and downs the last of his drink in a single swallow, and when he looks up again, Jonny’s making his way back to the table, escorting the woman with a gentlemanly hand on her back.

“This is Kate, guys,” and Kaner bites his lip at the open smile on Jonny’s face.

Sharpy salutes her, one arm around Abby's shoulders. “Hello, Kate. And what brings you to the company of the ‘Hawks on this fine night when you could be with much better company?”

Kate smiles, one of those enthusiastic smiles with a lot of teeth, which happen to be white and perfect, and Kaner likes her despite himself. “I bet you’re all pretty good company. You played really well last week,” she admits, and Kaner swells up a little. He’d had a three-point night last week, and it’s always nice to meet fans. “And I haven’t seen Jonny here since we did our residencies together at Northwestern Memorial.”

“So you’re a doctor, then?” Shazwy asks. “Do you have any lady doctor friends you wouldn’t mind fixing up with Kaner, here? He’s been off his game all night.”

Kate laughs, not mockingly, and considers Kaner, “I’m sure he does just fine for himself. Anyway, I’m here with some friends. I just wanted to say hi to Jonny, let him know how much we miss him at the hospital,” She winks conspiratorially at the Blackhawks, “You know, we called him Captain Serious at work. The guy always took charge and never cracked a smile, unless he pulled off some miracle surgery.”

The guys all laugh--”He hasn’t changed much,” Sharpy adds--and Kaner manages a weak grin. So Jonny _did_ get a nickname from those people after all. He likes Tazer better.

Jonny rolls his eyes and lets Kate go back to her friends and Kaner watches him watch her leave and feels something dark and ugly bloom in his stomach.

Dr. Kate, who is cool and composed. Who manages to look classy and comfortable, even when half the bar is smashed, martini in one hand as she makes her way towards a group of similarly beautiful and interesting women who look like they know how to get shit done.

Kaner is way out of his element here, and glances almost helplessly over to the rookies, who look gobsmacked in the way only male athletes do, many of whom are probably now just realizing that they've spent the last seven years of their lives germinating in a mixture of sweat, spunk, and testosterone, when confronted with the female of the species who is categorically in a league above them.

Kaner feels stupid. The last couple of weeks, making those excuses, those fake injuries, trying to get Jonny’s attention. Obviously Jonny is straight. Obviously he goes for accomplished, beautiful women who don’t try spin-o-ramas and fuck up their ankles in the process.

After Kate, it’s like the  floodgates have opened, and Kaner gets to sit and watch as one woman after another find an excuse to approach Tazer, apparently scenting out success and accomplishment like they were pheromones. Tazer’s sitting a few chairs down from him, now, and Kaner misses the presence on his left.

And despite the fact that Tazer lets each and every one of them down, it’s only a matter of time before he finds one he likes enough to take home, Kaner muses, and decides that it’s time to pull a classic Patrick Timothy Kane II and get roaringly smashed.

“Shots!” he calls, and, well, at least Shawzy’s up for it. Saader joins in, and before long, he’s got a gaggle of rookies and maudlin bachelor teammates tossing them back with him. He loses Jonny in the haze of multi-coloured alcohol and, well, that’s exactly what he had intended to do.

But he still can’t shake the sadness, and, in the end, when Sharpy’s driving him home, he remembers bluntly why alcohol is a depressant.

“Hey, did you see? Grey’s Anatomy scored tonight! Dude’s got mad game.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Kaner slurs. 

Sharpy exchanges a glance with Abby, who shrugs, and the two of them leave Kaner to his thoughts. Kaner’s mostly horizontal now in the backseat of his car, and he can’t help but wish Tazer weren’t horizontal with some woman somewhere else.

\----

He doesn’t get his wish, as he can tell from the enormous hickey adorning Tazer’s neck the next morning when he goes in before practice for a hangover remedy. Tazer seems a little disgruntled and Kaner doesn’t know if it’s from the hickey, the alcohol, or bad sex. He fervently hopes it’s the last.

“So, uh, hey. Hope you enjoyed the team last night.” Kaner forces out, trying to maintain his usual level of cheeriness. Tazer’s got no reason to be holding out for Kaner--it’s not like Kaner has any right to what Tazer does with his dick. 

“Do you usually drink that much when you go out?” Tazer asks mildly, as he lines up some pain-killers and gatorade. Somewhat needlessly, sure, since Kaner has all of that in his locker, but he never said he wasn’t a glutton for punishment. His eyes keep returning to  the discoloration on Tazer’s neck as he replies, “No, not really. Special occasion and all, right?”

Tazer merely hums and nods expectantly at the pills, which Kaner obligingly takes, before shifting awkwardly, searching for something to say.

“Do you think you’re going to see her again?”  Kaner blurts, cursing himself the minute it comes out.

“I’m not looking for anything serious right now.” Tazer’s voice is measured as he closes up the pill boxes on the wall.

“Ha, funny. ‘Cause you’re Captain Serious, right?” The joke falls flat, like Kaner’s dignity.

Tazer raises his eyebrows in Kaner’s direction. “Yeah, I was trying to shake that one. Had to give Kate a special thank you for telling you fools about it.” 

Kaner can’t help but be happy he heard it. For all he and Tazer have shared stories, Tazer still doesn’t like give away too much of himself. He’s still floored that Tazer--Jonny--trusted him enough to tell Kaner about his past, having hockey and then losing it. It’s an honor that Kaner doesn’t think he deserves, but he will protect that trust all the same, because Jonny must have thought Kaner was worth it. 

However, he still can’t shake the truth that there’s so much more he doesn’t know about Jonny, whereas everytime Kaner is in the same room with him he feels stripped bare and exposed.

Just then, Bolly sticks his head in and yells good morning, a gesture Kaner’s pretty sure Bolly made especially for the benefit of his hangover. “Practice time, though, my morning glory,” he chirps, and Kaner groans himself out of Jonny’s chair and into the locker room.

\----

Kaner spends the next few weeks avoiding Jonny, which isn’t too hard at first. He heads back up to Buffalo and pokes fun at his sisters for the holiday, and then it’s back to Chicago for three consecutive home games before a long road trip. The first time he sees Jonny, though, it all comes rushing back, and Kaner addresses the issue through copious self-medication--mostly vodka. He goes out at first, and then drinks alone in his apartment, when he doesn’t want the world to know how much he’s really drinking before a game.

If Deadspin thinks it’s bad when they lose a game, they’ve got no idea what it’s like when Kaner loses his heart.

Fortunately, the alcohol doesn’t impact his playing too much, and Kaner brushes off a few hits that he’d normally check up with Jonny about, though he knows how much that must bother him.

But it all comes crashing down the night that they arrive in Boston and Jonny knocks on his door at half-past midnight. This week, his roommate is Rozsival, and he’s been asleep for a few hours, so it’s just Kaner, the minibar, and HBO when Jonny comes knocking.

“Denny’s?” is the first word out of Jonny’s mouth, and Kaner looks at Jonny’s face, looks at the bottle of Skyy in his own hand, and shuts the door.

Of course, this is Captain Serious, so things can’t just be let to rest. Dr. McResponsiblePants has to solves Kaner's fucking issues for him, it seems.  Kaner grudgingly opens the door again after Jonny’s knocks grow increasingly loud and repetitive.

“What the fuck, Kaner?” Jonny spies the bottle and looks _pissed_ , “Did you eat before you drank that? How much have you had? Are you _aware_ that you’re skating tomorrow?”

Kaner inhales slowly, feeling exhausted from the alcohol and his own stupid sulking.

“I'm. Fine.”

Jonny deflates a little, though he’s still eyeing the bottle of vodka with an unreadable expression that Kaner would probably understand if he were sober, and remarks, “I guess Denny’s is off, then.” 

It’s not a question, which is good. But if Kaner stands here any longer, he’s going to have to find a cliff somewhere to fling himself off of for being such an emotional wreck.

Kaner nods. “Good night,” he adds, with a flare on the end, hoping he’s not slurring any of it and pretty sure that he is.

Jonny’s hand grabs the door as Kaner moves to shut it, and Kaner meets Jonny’s eyes with a tired frown. “Any chance I’ll get some insight into what the hell is going on with you?” Jonny asks with concern, and it’s real this time, Kaner can tell. It hits him right in the gut, and it’s all he can do to say a quiet no before letting the door swing shut between them. 

\----

 

But eventually, the alcohol catches up with him, as it always does. It takes another two weeks: they’re in Pittsburgh this time, and Kaner had continued his run in a series of unfortunate life choices by emptying the well-stocked minibar the night before. His roommate had passed out early, was it Carbomb? Hammer? He barely remembers who it was, hell, he barely remembers his own middle name right now.  He does remember looking at the clock, seeing that it was the usual time for meeting up with Jonny at the vending machines for their Denny’s run, and continuing to drink.

So the hangover this morning is well-deserved and extra brutal with the jet lag. Kaner doesn’t dare go to Jonny for any more pills, since he knows Jonny would be less than sympathetic about dealing with Kaner’s shit, which just sucks.

He’s on his own for the game against the Penguins. Crosby and Malkin are on fucking fire tonight and soon the Pens are up 2-1. Which is just fucking great, Kaner thinks, searching for a familiar white uniform as he shoots towards the offensive zone with the puck.

But no-one’s in sight, and Kaner has a half-second of notice before Matt Cooke slams him into the boards head first.

Kaner’s last thought is, unsurprisingly,“Oh shit,” and then he whites out.

He wakes up again what must be just a few seconds later, because Cooke’s leaning over him and yelling something indiscriminate. Kaner shakes his head, and the words come into focus, “Are you okay? Fuck, man, my bad. Yo, talk to me! Kane!”

Kaner nods. “Yeah, yeah,” he forces out, and takes Cooke’s proffered hand to haul himself up, head spinning. He sees Jonny and Q in the box as he makes his way back--Tazer looks like he’s going to race out onto the ice, actually, and Q is screaming at a ref off to the side.

“Into the back, now,” Jonny yells into his ear over the roar of the crowd, and Kaner can only follow the push given to him.

Jonny pushes him into the first seat he can find and nearly throws the cabinet doors open in his search for ibuprofen and water. He finds it, finally, and the awful banging of the cabinets stops. It’s not much of a relief, though, because Jonny’s face appears right in front of his, and his fingers grip Kaner’s chin and yanks it into his own face, glaring into Kaner’s eyes.

“Were you drinking last night?” Jonny’s voice is rough. Kaner blinks.

“How is that relevant?” Kaner asks, because it is relevant, but he sure as hell doesn’t want Jonny to know the truth.

“You could have avoided that hit. Instead, you almost broke your fucking neck. This is not a fucking joke, Patrick,” and Kaner jolts backwards. Patrick? What the fuck?

Jonny notices his reaction, and his eyes flash. “Patrick Timothy Kane the Second, how much did you have to drink last night?” he growls, and Kaner shrinks into the back of his chair.

“Just test me for the fucking concussion,” he chokes out, because he can’t stand being this close to Jonny, with both their heart rates up like this, staring into each others’ eyes, Jonny’s hands now on his shoulders--he just can’t.

Jonny sucks in a breath, harsh and quick, and Kaner is frozen. Stuck. Motionless.

“Fine.” Jonny says, after a long moment, and pulls Patrick by the arm into the concussion testing room.

\----

Kaner passes the concussion tests by the skin of his teeth, and he’s honestly not quite sure how he passes at all. Liberal use of smelling salts can only get him so far, and he wonders if Q threw any weight around on the issue. He might have been a little fudgey about the headaches, but it could just be the hangovers, so he’ll attribute them to dehydration as long as he can play and get away from Jonny. 

Well, it doesn’t matter, he reflects, pulling on his skates as soon as he’s cleared, and he bullshits with the guys like everything’s normal, ignoring the buzz in the back of his head.

The buzz just gets worse by the end of practice, though, but there’s no way Kaner’s going to Jonny on this one, not when he was just cleared for play that morning. But he resolves to take it easy on the alcohol--he’s not stupid.

\----

A few days later, the buzzing is still there, and Kaner’s not really sure what to do about it. He’s been sober all week--ever since the hit, really--and he should be fine. He passed the concussion tests. That’s all that matters. And going to see Jonny is an option he refuses to contemplate--so Kaner plays it out.

He’s on the ice for not-quite-as-many minutes as usual, but still plays his hardest, and it tends to pays off. Kaner might not have had a four-point night in a while, but that doesn’t mean his playing is bad. It’s fine, he reminds himself, and he closes down a little, spending his extra brainpower on keeping the team in focus on the ice--he’s wearing the A, and that doesn’t change with a few headaches.

Things have been getting a little blurry recently in his personal life, and Kaner puts a lot of effort into making sure that he cleans up. He calls his parents and ribs his sisters about Jessica’s new boyfriend, and squints to make sure he can read what he’s writing on his grocery list. Kaner buys vegetables and if his hand slips while he’s cutting them, it’s not like he doesn’t have bandaids.

He’s competent. Patrick Kane can handle an injury--it’s not like doctors are the only people that can take care of themselves.

\----

And then it’s a month later, and, if anything, it’s getting worse. Keeping the team in focus on the ice means more than just being in the zone, now--he has to look extra hard to see the puck, and Saader is blurry to his left, and it’s not just because he’s skating quickly. Patrick stumbles over the edge of the rink, and nearly falls down when he hops over the bench in the middle of a game --he can feel Jonny’s eyes boring into him, but he’s been _good_. He hasn’t been drinking (much), he hasn’t been acting out, he hasn’t really been fucking up at all. In fact, this has been a month of stellar behavior for Patrick Kane, thank you, and he doesn’t need a doctor to tell him that he is just. fucking. fine. 

Or at least, he’s just fine for another week, and then it’s March and they play the Devils, and it’s bad tonight. Kaner’s had rough nights, lately--he hasn’t been sleeping well, and he can’t stay focused to easily, either. He’s been shutting himself away from the team, and this has been happening for a month or so now, really, because it’s getting harder and harder to be the Patrick Kane of old, always chirping and going out with the guys.

He may space out for a moment, skating up while Duncs passes the puck up to him, but it’s going well, there’s a spot open in Brodeur’s net, and he’s got it, when Khovalchuk spins around and checks him lightly into the boards, and Kaner goes down.

He doesn’t get up.

\----

When he wakes up, Jonny is standing over him with a look of what can only be described as sheer rage. Kaner’s glad to see that this one takes very little work to decipher, because he doesn’t think he’d be able to read it if it took any work. Kaner blinks and when his vision comes to again, Jonny’s glare is still there, and he hasn’t ever seen him this dark, this angry. Not even when Kaner first spun-o-rama-ed, not when his wrist was slashed, not when he hangovered himself into a concussion that he hid for a month and a half.

Kaner doesn’t have any room in his head to deny the truth of that.

Jonny looks like he’s going to pop a vein. “You fucking asshole,” he growls, and Kaner runs down a list of curses he could spit back before realising that there’s a hangup between his tongue and his brain. Okay. No talking for now.

“We took an MRI,” and Jonny’s voice is tight, controlled, now, and Kaner’s heart sinks. Jonny continues, “You probably don’t want to know how it turns out, but you’ll be lucky if you’re back on the ice in _June_.” Jonny pauses to reexamine Kaner’s eyes, but there’s not really a whole lot of movement; it’s shock, mostly, and a little bit of terror at the thought of three months with no hockey--three months with no games, no team, no tv, no books, no booze, no nothing.

Jonny continues, “And you know fucking what? If you had just fucking told me when it happened, it would have been _fine_. You’d have been out for three weeks and then you’d be back, definitely in time for the playoffs. You’d have been there in time to help your team win sets of seven. You wouldn’t be lying on a stretcher asking yourself why this wasn’t fixed when it happened, because then you could have played.” Kaner has the sense that this is more personal to Jonny than he ever could have realized, even knowing Jonny’s history with hockey.

“So Patrick,” starts Jonny, and Kaner shivers again, because people calling him Patrick is seriously uncool, “You. fucking. asshole.”

“I’m the asshole?” Kaner blurts out, finally able to connect his brain and his mouth. “Me? Are you fucking serious! You came here and from fucking day one you’ve had a grudge against me. You knew I was good, and you saw everything you couldn’t do in me. You took it out on me, called me dumb, stupid, when you’re the one who’s stupid! Stupid for not trying hard enough to get hockey back when you lost it!”

Jonny rears back, and Kaner continues, as if possessed, “You take it personally every time I screw up. It’s not your fucking game anymore, Jonny! _It’s my game_. And you know what? You’re not my fucking captain."

Jonny looks like Kaner punched him in the face--which he might as well have done, and snarls, “Fuck you. You know what happened--and you know I tried my goddamn best to get it back.  I’ve spent the last eleven fucking years reminding myself that it wasn’t my fault, and I got my life back on track. And you know what? You’re fucking terrified, because you know that you fucked up here, and if it gets worse, you’ll lose hockey. And if you lose hockey, and it’s your own fucking fault, then what do _you_ have, _Kaner_?” And it’s the first time Kaner’s had his name, his nickname that he’s come to live by, that he’s _earned_ , used against him.

Kaner’s breathing hard, and he wishes he wasn’t lying under Jonny’s gaze, because he’d like to spit in his face. Instead, he settles for glaring into Jonny’s eyes for another moment and then closing them, reminding himself that this is the high road. He slows his breathing, listening only to his exhalations, and doesn’t notice when Jonny storms out.

But the silence of the room doesn’t stop the muted refrain of _nothing_ , _nothing_ , _nothing_ that echoes in Kaner’s head for the rest of the afternoon.

\----

Unsurprisingly, Kaner’s banned from playing. In fact, he’s banned from everything, just as he expected, and a week in, he’s had all the running through games in his head that he can handle without actually strapping on skates.

Three days later, he runs out of TV show plots to narrate.

It takes him one afternoon to plan out Twilight On Ice, the musical extravaganza of the decade, and he’s realized that this is his new career--it’ll be a blockbuster. The girls will love it, his sisters will be proud, and hey, look at that, he has a future beyond hockey.

Six more hours are occupied once he remembers that he hasn’t gotten laid in _months_. The problem is, everything keeps coming back to Jonny and his perfect fucking ass, and Kaner just can’t get away from it. Even his dick can’t stop thinking about Jonny.

And then he runs out of things to do that don’t involve Jonny, and Kaner gives up.

He starts talking to himself. Kaner’s running through conversations in his head--some are apologies, some are fighting matches where he yells at Jonny for every single fucking Denny’s they went to, and some are just conversations.

“Hi, how’s your day?” Kaner’s pacing his kitchen, chatting with himself out loud.

“Fine.” He imitates Jonny’s rumble.

“Yeah, so, uh, I just wanted to offer you some split pea soup.” And it’s true, Kaner cooked. Ish. He had a can of split pea soup and he fulfilled his daily reading allotment by looking at the instructions on the side.

He doesn’t remember when or why he bought split pea soup, but all roads in Kaner’s head lead to Jonny at this point, and Kaner figures that if he’s in for a pea, he may as well be in for some fucking pea soup.

And thus he finds himself on the couch with his phone in his hand, charged up specially for this occasion--he’s found, through past concussions, that if the phone is on, he’ll play with it, and he’s being good this time around, please and thank you, and so he let his phone die but for once every three days, when he calls his family. Kaner’s not really sure what time it is, as he’s been cooped up here for, well, he doesn’t really know, but it’s been too long and he’s lonely and bored and he mostly ran out of edible food. Seriously, what the fuck is tempeh and who bought him that shit, anyway?

And he feels fucking guilty as hell. So.

The phone is ringing before he realizes he’s punched in the number, and he doesn’t fully realize what he’s done until Jonny’s voice fills his ear.

“Are you aware that it’s two-thirty in the fucking morning?”

“Oh.” Kaner pauses. “So guess what I thought of?”

Jonny’s voice is wary and impatient, “Kaner, why are you calling me?”

“I thought of this thing. It’s called Twilight on Ice. I’m going to direct it, and that way, I’ll have a life after hockey. So there.” It may be, Kaner reflects, the most passionate he’s sounded in weeks.

“That’s fucking great, Kaner.” Is Jonny amused? Hard to tell, as usual.

“And I was thinking, I’m sure Chara is perfect for the role of Edward. And Sidney, you know, Crosby? He’d make a great Bella Swan. His lips, you know?” Kaner waves with his hand, but Jonny can’t see him. “But, I don’t know. Should we cast it using one team? Cause then Geno can be Jacob, or maybe we should make all the Russians werewolves?”

“I’m sure Ovechkin would be up to the task,” Jonny deadpans and it’s shocking how he can do that at three am, but Kaner’s thrilled that he got anything from him.

“And, uh, by the way, I’m sorry.” If there’s one thing Kaner’s good at, it’s non sequiturs.

Jonny lets the silence linger, something Kaner has never, in his 25 years of life, managed to do.

“You’re sorry.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Okay then,” Jonny’s voice reveals nothing, “Anything else?" 

“I’m hungry?”

“Kaner,” and now he can hear some emotion from the other end of the line, “When was the last time you ate anything? Are you regularly checking yourself for pupil dilation, or drinking 8 glasses of water a day?”

Now Kaner’s perfectly happy to let the silence sit.

“As your doctor, I’m medically obligated to inform you that you’re an idiot.”

“A hungry idiot.”

A sigh, which carries the weight of the last four months, echoes through the phone, and Kaner doesn’t want to beat around the bush much longer.

“Can you come over?” It’s a heavy thing to ask, and suddenly Kaner panics, wondering if Jonny has someone over there with him, maybe Dr. Kate. Or maybe Jonny just won’t want to come. Kaner would deserve it.

“I’ll be there in thirty.” And then Kaner hears the dial tone, and breathes a sigh of relief.

True to his word, Jonny arrives exactly half an hour later and Kaner wants to weep when he sees what Jonny’s carrying in his hands: two bags labeled Denny’s.

“I figured you would appreciate some quality cuisine,” Jonny snarks, before cracking a rueful smirk at Kaner.

And Kaner’s going to be a motherfucking adult about this.

“Are you shitters legitters?” is what comes out of his mouth instead and Kaner wants to slap himself, “No, wait, I mean, come on in,” and he holds the door open for Jonny like a motherfucking gentleman, and for a moment he’s acutely aware of the last time Jonny stood at his door, and how he swung it closed, trapping him and his stupid feelings inside.

And it only gets better from there. Inside those bags, which Kaner opens with almost holy reverence, are a Southwest Turkey Sandwich and soup (split pea) and a Cranberry Apple Chicken Salad; and for Kaner, a Grand Slam Slugger, Smothered Cheese Fries and a Diet Coke.

Kaner barely breaks his grin the entire time.

Jonny’s already asleep on the couch by the time that Kaner collapses in a food-induced coma, and when Kaner wakes up the following afternoon, Jonny’s sitting cross-legged and drinking coffee with a grin that’s absolutely obnoxious.

“What are you so smiley about?” Kaner mumbles, rubbing his eyes with the hand that’s not supporting himself on his chair.

Jonny’s grin gets even bigger. “I get coffee and you don’t.”

“Motherfucker,” Kaner swears, and for a moment Jonny looks put out. Then he laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that Kaner didn’t realise how much he’s missed, and Kaner makes a face at the ground.

They have to talk at some point, Kaner knows that. But for now, he’s content to let the peace between them linger, and it sticks around pleasantly for the next couple of days. Kaner’s not sure how Jonny manages to stick around--he may not know what day it is, but when four have passed at least one of them’s gotta be a weekday, right? But it takes until the fifth morning that Kaner walks in on Jonny, still in a borrowed pair of too-short pajamas on the couch, making a phone call to Q, that he realises that Jonny’s really, actually missing Blackhawks practice to be here with him.

It leaves him a little warmer inside than he wants to admit, but, he thinks, it’s all good for now.

“Yeah,” Jonny says into the phone, “I’m still with Kane, that’s why I’m not at practice. No, fine, I’ll come in tomorrow. Just making sure Kaner’s alright,” Jonny adds, and Kaner smiles to himself and promptly trips over a chair in moment of inattention.

Jonny looks over at him and grins, wide and easy. “No, I just got confirmation that Kaner’s definitely still concussed,” he says cheerfully, and hangs up.

Kaner knows that these last few days have been borrowed time, but he’s enjoyed them: card games, cooking, and just sitting around and talking--Kaner’s not allowed books, screens, or even training just yet. He’s learned more about Jonny in the last few days than he had throughout the last seven months, and it’s good. Kaner learns that Jonny’s a stellar cook when he’s dragged out of the house to a farmer’s market he didn’t even know existed a couple of blocks over and forced to wade through barrels of vegetables, Jonny’s keen eyes not missing a bruise or a smudge.

They stand over Kaner’s seldom-used stainless steel countertops, chopping and peeling and scrubbing, and of course Jonny’s meticulous about preparing food properly. But, he realizes, after consuming a delicious dish of baked orzo, eggplant, and mozzarella, that it’s a hobby with a lot of payoff.

“I needed hobbies,” Jonny admits, after polishing off a side salad of arugula, beets, and goat cheese. (Kaner’s never had any of these things before.) “Especially as I was preparing for medical school. I think I saw college as temporary, just something to do until I eventually recovered. But,” he breaks off with a self-deprecating grin, which Kaner hates, “that never happened.”

Kaner can’t imagine feeling that kind of hope slowly slipping away, and Jonny meets his gaze frankly, continuing, “It was tough, that first year, to let go of those dreams,” and Kaner nods mutely.

“So I threw myself into cooking, and learning guitar, and school, and soon, I had new dreams. Not necessarily better or worse, just different.” Jonny finishes simply.

Jonny stands up and begins to clear the table and Kaner, the coward that he is, waits until Jonny’s facing away before replying softly, “You were right. If it had happened to me, if I couldn’t play anymore, I’d have nothing.”

He sees Jonny’s shoulders rise and then fall. “We’re more alike than you think. I didn’t think I had anything other than hockey, that I had hit rock bottom. But you find yourself when you think you have nothing left, and I discovered that I had the capacity to help people. To change lives. And ultimately, it was a better outcome than I could have predicted.”

Kaner lets his mind wander, imagining an alternate world, where he really was too short, or too slow--a world where he didn’t make it, and was still in Buffalo. He thinks about what he enjoys, when he’s not playing hockey (his first thought is still hockey), and he sees children, and the way their faces light up when he talks to them about their dreams, and how he’s able to help them, in his own way, get them one step closer to achieving them.

“I think maybe I would coach hockey, back in Buffalo,” Kaner says slowly.

Jonny snorts. “Guys like us, we can’t get away from hockey. It’s in our blood,” he places a steady hand on Kaner’s shoulder, and it’s warm, “And eventually, it led me back to where I needed to be. It’s different now, sure, but I’m no less in love with it than the first time I skated out onto the ice.”

And that is that.

Jonny lets Kaner come back to practice with him the next day, provided he doesn’t do anything but watch, and he comes over afterwards and sleeps on the couch again to make sure Kaner’s taking care of himself right. He’s not cleared to do any playing just yet, but Kaner’s happy to be out of the apartment and back at the UC, where he feels like he belongs.

\----

It’s the first week of May, and the Blackhawks are in the playoffs. They’re not the number one seed, and Kaner can’t help but blame himself for that--he knows that they would be if he were playing--but they’re in, and that’s all that matters. 

He gets to follow the team on the road--still no playing in games, but going is better than staying at home--and he sits next to Jonny on the plane, who checks him intermittently for headaches and pressure problems. Kaner passes with flying colors and tells Jonny about every ache and pain he feels.

They hit Denny’s again, Jonny obviously not happy with the disruption to Kaner’s sleep schedule, but he relaxes when they get their food and dig in. Kaner’s been practicing with the team for a few days now, and they discuss how the team feels and how he expects them to play.

“Duncs and Seabs are top-notch, as usual,” Kaner tosses out, between bites, “And I’ve been really happy with the chemistry between Hossa and Sharpy these last couple of days.” Even when he’s concussed, the A means a lot to Kaner, and he’s been watching the guys play hard.

“You know,” Jonny says, a few bites later, “If they make it into the finals, I think you’ll be ready to play by then.”

Kaner’s too nervous to even think about that, so he shoves it to the back of his mind and focuses on their sundae.

\----

They watch the first series, and it’s nerve-wracking. Kaner thinks he finally understands how Jonny must have felt when he had to leave hockey. Watching the team he loves succeed without him, he realizes, is a little heartbreaking, but at the same time, Kaner couldn’t be prouder.

In the locker room, after they’ve beaten San Jose in five games, Kaner celebrates with the team and they rally around him as well, chirping him as though he had been out there on the ice with them. Sharpy, looking more like a captain than ever, takes Kaner aside and lets him know how much the team misses him. Duncs and Seabs, ever inseparable, make fun of his ugly-as-fuck playoff stubble (Jonny hasn’t said a word about it), and Shawzy begs Q to let Kaner play the next round, against Vancouver.

The doubts that Kaner’s carried with him, these past few months, exacerbated by his illness, slowly dissipate and with pride in his team comes the reaffirmation that he’s earned his place here, that it was always here waiting for him.

Kaner knows that as soon as he’s healthy enough, he’ll be back on the ice, and this time he’ll have Jonny’s confidence and strength to carry him forward.

However, Kaner recognizes that Jonny had once felt that optimism as well, but for him there had been no light at the end of the tunnel, no ham in the metaphorical split pea soup of life. He knows, now, the pain Jonny went through to come back to hockey and work for the Hawks--watching what could have been in front of him, unable to play, helpless to go back and fix the incident that ended his career before it began.

Realizing that Jonny’s emotional depth extends even further than the Marianas Trench of feelings Kaner had thought Jonny capable of doesn’t help with his crush, and neither does Jonny’s reaction when Kaner tells him that he’s realized all this.

Jonny blushes a little. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice is husky.

Kaner wonders what else could make Jonny’s voice rough like that.

“So, uh,” Kaner begins, and Jonny finishes, “Kaner, you’re not half bad.”

Kaner makes a face. “The fuck does that mean?”

“It means, can I take you out to Denny’s?”

“What do you mean, ‘out’?” Kaner mimes quotation marks around the most important word in that sentence.

“I mean out, dumbass, like, take you out on a date.”

“To Denny’s? You realise I’m a fucking millionaire hockey player, right? You want to take me to _Denny’s_?” Kaner shakes his head. “If you want me to put out, you’re taking me somewhere fucking fancy.”

“There will be no putting out until you’re cleared to play.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Kaner can’t keep the note of whine out of his voice.

Jonny grins. “As a concussion.”

Kaner does not smile.

\----

The playoffs continue, and as Kaner gets closer to healthy enough to play, their dates get better and better. Except that Jonny’s enough of a sadistic bastard to interpret ‘putting out’ to include all manner of friendly petting, including heated makeouts. Kaner’s barely gotten a kiss out of Jonny, just some careful pecks on his forehead before and after his light practices. There’s plenty of hand-holding, though, and it turns out that Jonny’s a great hugger. Which is par for the course, since Jonny treats any sort of activity with a thoroughness and diligence that would make Mother Teresa weep.

The hugs do get uncomfortable after a while, especially since Kaner starts popping boners every time he gets near Jonny. Which sucks. 

“I didn’t think you were really serious about that no-putting-out thing,” Kaner grumbles, and Jonny laughs.

“Did you forget who you’re talking to?”

Finally, June rolls around, the Hawks make it to the Stanley Cup Finals, and Kaner is pacing back and forth in Jonny’s office when Jonny walks in with the news.

“So, I’m all clear now?” Kaner asks, barely holding in his excitement.

“Signs point to yes,” Jonny replies, and Kaner notices stiffness in his voice for one worrying second. Then Jonny gets up and nonchalantly locks the door to the hallway, and with one forceful push, slams Kaner against it.

“Yes?”

“Don’t move,” Jonny gasps out, fists clenching in Kaner’s jersey, “Don’t you fucking move.”

And then he kisses Kaner, softly, roughly, thoroughly, and every other fucking adverb Kaner knows. All of the above, Kaner thinks, on the rating scale his sisters made up for the boys they kissed, that went from ‘sweet’ to ‘sexy bites’ to ‘fuck yeah’ and even onto ‘I’m going to come in my pants’. Well, Kaner might have made that last one up himself.

Jonny’s kisses quickly shut off higher brain function, though, and Kaner begins to register sensations briefly and rapidly: the cold of the metal door against his back, the warm wet puffs of air as Jonny shifts his attentions to Kaner’s neck, and the uncomfortable scrape of fabric over his rapidly hardening dick.

“Is this really happening?” Kaner manages to ask, dumbly, and Tazer laughs, but it’s more like a gasp against his skin as his lower body starts to move gently, but with purpose against Kaner’s. 

“You’re fucking in my face every goddamn day, and you don’t even know. I want to fucking tear you apart.” Jonny’s tone, which usually oscillates between boredom and disdain, is suddenly rich and textured with pain, pain that Kaner echoes with every sharp cry he lets out ‘cause this has been building between them for so long and he’s wanted Jonny for what seems like _forever_.

It’s an exquisite sort of pain, the pain of waiting, of searching and then having what you need under your hands finally, finally, _finally_. Much like Jonny’s ass, which is the most sublime thing Kaner’s ever held, and Jonny appears to like that Kaner likes it, if the stiffness of his cock has any say in the matter. Johnny bites his neck and begins to move faster, ramming himself against Kaner, who lets out a series of sharp, inarticulate noises.

Jonny surfaces from creating what will be a truly epic hickey to whisper, “It’s fucking you, Patrick. It’s always fucking been you.” And that seals it for Kaner. It’s never been him, not for anyone before, because nobody looked beyond his skills on the ice and his reputation off it and saw his doubts, his passions, and his desperation; the need that constantly grows within him to be better, and to do better. But Jonny sees it, and he matches it. He knows what it’s like to strive and fight and to be cut short by circumstance, by another team, and by your own body.

They met late, Kaner knows, and has a brief moment to imagine it, Jonny at nineteen, looking across the ice at Kaner and passing the puck to him and how _good_ it would have felt to have him there by his side at the beginning.

But this is their beginning, the one they have now, and Kaner takes it, seizes it like he seizes Jonny’s perfectly pressed button-down and claws at it, hitching himself up and wrapping his legs around Jonny’s waist and arching himself into his warm, sturdy body.

He doesn’t know how long their furious humping lasts. Anything Jonny does is performed with a certain amount of ferocity, which means he sees things, like Kaner’s orgasm, through to the bitter end. And he wrings it out of him like a boss, and Kaner comes so hard he sees stars and wonders if he’s concussed himself again. Which would suck. But not as hard as he’s going to suck Jonny’s dick when this is through.

When he informs Jonny of this fact, Jonny shudders once, twice, and then comes in his pants.

Kaner grins. “We have to do this again, you know. I didn’t even get my mouth close to your dick.”

Jonny gives him a look that’s so fondly exasperated that Kaner blurts out, “I fucking love you.”

Jonny blinks, then cradles Kaner’s face in his hands and replies, “I fucking love you too.”

The two of them stand, soaked in their own come, wrapped in a peapod of feelings, and then Tazer steps back and methodically cleans the both of them, and his office, up.

He then turns to Kaner and says, “Now go win us a motherfucking Stanley Cup.”

And Kaner does.

With a fucking spin-o-rama in overtime, Game 6.

 

 _The End_.

 

 _Epilogue_.

“So,” Jonny begins. “It’s your first physical back this season. I hope you had a nice summer.”

Kaner snorts. “You were there for the entire thing. You know what it was like.”

“Irrelevant. No more concussion symptoms?”

“Nope.” 

“So, are you sexually active?”

Kaner snorts again. “Maybe. Have you noticed?”

Jonny frowns at Kaner over his clipboard. “Anyway,” he continues in his best doctorly voice, “Has anything been feeling weird lately, any issues, any pain?”

“Well, I think I’ve been a little sexually frustrated, and, you know, WebMD says sexual frustration leads to stress, and stress leads to stress fractures.”

Jonny raises his eyebrows.

Kaner continues, as sincerely as he can manage. “I think I have a stress fracture. In my penis." 

“I doubt that, considering the thorough examination said organ had just the other day.”

“Oh yeah,” Kaner grins, because having a hot doctor for a boyfriend means Jonny knows _all_  about anatomy, and is very concerned with mapping Kaner’s erogenous (thank you, Erica) zones, “But, you know, I was thinking back, and it’s been a while since I had a prostate exam.”

“If by a while, you mean a week.”

“I mean a legit, _medical_ , exploration for ensure my...healthy condition.” Kaner nods for emphasis.

Jonny looks unimpressed, and it’s so reminiscent of the first time they were in this room together, nearly a year ago, that Kaner beams and holds back from jumping his bones with really admirable control.

Jonny’s about to open his mouth, probably to say something like, “What the fuck, Kaner, don’t be an idiot,” but then he pauses, reconsiders, then narrows his eyes.

“Bend over on the table and let’s get this started.”

 

 _Fin_.

**Author's Note:**

> [music for writing these goofballs for fourteen hours straight.](http://8tracks.com/yukonecho/bad-case-of-loving-you)


End file.
